Romantic
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Endgame". It's Boyd and Grace, a weekend away and a whole lot of fluff. Response to Scription Addict's "Last Line Challenge". Complete. T for language. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER**: I own nothing.

**A/N**: My answer to Scription Addict's "Last Line Challenge". WARNING: contains fluff. ;)

* * *

**Romantic**

by Joodiff

* * *

"It's romantic," Grace argues obstinately, but it's sadly true that her claim would have significantly more merit if the sky wasn't an unrelenting shade of gunmetal grey and the rain wasn't still falling steadily and sullenly.

Boyd gives her a very telling sideways glance before returning his attention to the narrow, muddy track along which they are driving. "No, Grace," he says, dark irony heavy in his voice. "_Romantic_ is sipping chilled champagne on the balcony of a five star hotel in Paris, not spending a grim bloody weekend in a tent in Wales."

"Yurt," she corrects him pedantically.

"Whatever. It's still a fucking tent, and personally I haven't been camping since the Scouts."

The image his irritable declaration immediately brings to mind makes her chuckle. Despite how bad-tempered he already is. Aloud, she says, "Oh, you were never in the Scouts, Boyd."

"I bloody _was_."

"Really?"

"Really. And no, you can't see my woggle."

Grace smirks and is quietly relieved. If Boyd's sense of humour hasn't totally deserted him, maybe, just maybe, the weekend can still be salvaged. Back in London, drinking wine and listening to her eldest niece enthusing wildly about the great holiday she and her husband had just enjoyed, it had all seemed such a very good idea. Something bit different, an entertaining surprise to spring on her own relatively recently-acquired and already rather long-suffering partner. Wisely, she'd reserved actually telling him exactly where they were going for the moment when turning back was likely to infuriate him even more than grumpily and stoically continuing onwards.

When the story finally comes out much later – as it almost certainly will – she just knows their junior colleagues are going to laugh themselves sick at their great leader's expense. Quietly, where he can't hear them. What Grace knows and they don't is that when away from work the usually formidable and quick-tempered Boyd is a damned sight more patient and tolerant than they could ever imagine. Plainly, he isn't exactly overjoyed by her unexpected choice of accommodation for the weekend, but since they aren't already heading straight back to London at a considerable rate of knots, Grace suspects she'll be able to win him over. Eventually. She hasn't yet played her trump card, either, sensibly preferring to hold it in reserve.

"This must be it," Boyd says, slowing the car to a crawl as they approach a discreetly-marked and even more muddy turning that leads off into a wooded area. Sounding thoroughly disgusted, he adds, "Lovely. Why on earth would anyone want room service and a view of the Champs-Élysées when they can have miles of wet primordial forest instead?"

Grace doesn't rise to the gibe. There is, in fact, a small, traitorous part of her mind that's beginning to share his opinion. It's July, for God's sake – even in Wales it shouldn't be raining quite so determinedly. Ahead of them she finally spots the promised gravel parking area. There's only one other car present, an anonymous blue hatchback, and no other sign of life. She waits for Boyd to park the car before gesturing towards the rustic wooden sign beside a narrow path to their right. "That's ours. Osprey."

"Fucking _Osprey_. Third bloody tent along, more like. Jesus, Grace, I'm seriously starting to worry about you. What is this – some bizarre fantasy of yours I've previously been blissfully unaware of?"

She doesn't tell him that he's a lot closer to the mark than he probably realises. Unfastening her seat belt, she says, "Let's go and have a look."

"It's chucking down out there."

"Boyd."

He growls resentfully, but a moment later he's out of the car and walking round to open the passenger door for her, unconsciously gallant. It amuses her. He's right, though – it's still raining extremely hard. Fortunately, once they're on the path the trees shelter them from the worst of the deluge. It's still very wet, however, and even though the ground under their feet is thick with a mulch of wood chips, she just knows he's going to complain bitterly about the mud. He doesn't. In fact, he doesn't say a word until they reach a small clearing that's dominated by a single large, round temporary structure. Then, he says, "Terrific."

Ignoring his pointed lack of enthusiasm, Grace snags his arm. "Come on."

She's seen the pictures. She knows what to expect. Preceding him through the large, heavily insulated canvas flaps that form the yurt's door, she straightens up and smiles in satisfaction. It's everything she's been hoping for, and more. Central wood-burner for heating – and atmosphere – thick rugs and sheepskins everywhere; solid wooden furniture; candles and elegant lanterns hanging from the wooden frame. The _pièce de résistance_ is the huge bed, also piled high with rugs, sheepskins and cushions.

Behind her, the deep voice sounds startled as it says, "Bloody hell…"

Grace grins to herself. Smugly. Ingenuously, she asks, "Well? What do you think?"

"Beats the hell out of Scout camp, Grace."

She looks round at him, and isn't at all surprised to see his attention is entirely focused on that big, spectacular bed. Nor is she surprised by just how foxy the look in his dark eyes has become. It's a real effort not to laugh. Casually, she finally plays her trump card. "Did I mention there was a hot tub…?"

-oOo-

"All right," Boyd concedes a little later. "You've got a point. But at the end of the day it's still a tent, and you're still expecting me to take a shower outside in a wooden shed. And let's not even talk about how happy I'm going to be when I wake up at two in the morning needing a pee."

"You're right, let's not," Grace agrees wryly.

Boyd is lounging full length on the large, low sofa and despite his complaints he doesn't look as if he's about to mutinously make a run for the nearest luxury hotel. They are, after all, now warm and dry, and the sound of the heavy rain on the wool-insulated canvas roof above them is actually strangely soothing. They could be anywhere; just the two of them alone together in the small and surprisingly comfortable space. All things considered, Grace once again has high hopes for the weekend.

"I'm hungry," Boyd announces, shattering her moment of serenity.

"Fully-stocked solar-powered fridge," she says, gesturing. "Stove. There's a barbeque outside, too. Knock yourself out."

"Not quite what I had in mind, Grace."

"Apparently there's a pub in the village that does really good food."

He brightens perceptibly. "Much better."

"Why don't you go and get our luggage from the car, and then we'll decide what to do."

"It's still raining out there," he complains.

"And?"

"Why do I have to get the luggage?" Boyd demands. She gives him a look and he sighs heavily and stands up. "I see. This is one of those times when those of us with a Y chromosome are supposed to just shut up and get on with it, isn't it? What happened to equality and diversity?"

"Don't forget the bag of stuff behind my seat."

"Now you're just taking the piss."

"Off you go," Grace says mildly. "There's a good boy."

-oOo-

By the time they've eaten an extremely good meal at the village pub and he's consumed two or three whiskies and several pints of locally-brewed beer, Boyd is far mellower. So mellow, in fact, that the usual negative commentary that always seems to ensue whenever Grace takes the wheel of the big Audi is entirely absent. He reclines in the passenger seat, patently more than three sheets to the wind, occasionally smiling to himself. Grace doesn't bother asking what he's thinking about – she's pretty damned certain it's something to do with many sheepskins and that large bed. Which is just fine by her. Assuming he doesn't simply fall asleep the moment he's horizontal.

She drives carefully down the lane that leads to the farmhouse where they stopped earlier. It's very dark, but at least the rain has finally given over. Passing the house and its outbuildings, she turns down the track that leads towards the woods, and then slows for the closed, locked gate. Nodding towards it, she says, "Your turn."

Boyd grumbles in a very lazy, half-hearted sort of way and unfastens his seat belt. Holding out his hand, he says, "Go on, then."

Grace retrieves her handbag, fumbles in it and eventually frowns. "I can't find the key."

With drunken solemnity, he blinks slowly and asks, "What do you mean you can't find the key?"

"I mean," she says patiently, "I can't find the key. It's not here."

He groans. "Fuck's sake, Grace…"

Further searching by both of them proves fruitless. The gate key is conspicuous by its absence. Suddenly a lot more sober, Boyd says, "Great, just great. Drive back to the farmhouse."

"Oh, I can't, Boyd. It's late and there weren't any lights on. We can't wake them up."

"Why not?"

"Be reasonable, for heaven's sake. Can't you just pick the lock, or something?"

His tone is incredulous. "Are you serious?"

"Have you got a better idea? One that doesn't involve disturbing the locals?"

He glowers at her, but eventually opens the car door. "Fine. But you can come and hold the damned torch for me."

-oOo-

Several hours later in the darkness, a female voice says irritably, "I told you drinking all that beer was a very bad idea."

The answer is succinct. "Fuck _off_, Grace."

Predictably, it's raining steadily and as he unwillingly ventures out into the night once again, Peter Boyd is not a happy man. Not at all.

-oOo-

Grace has to admit that there are far worse ways to be woken up. There may occasionally be wicked mischief in him, but as a lover he's innately very gentle – surprisingly so – and as far as she's concerned sleepily indulging him is no hardship at all, particularly when it generally pays off so handsomely in the long run. A thoroughly sated Boyd is a tranquil and very amenable Boyd, and in their private life at least, that's just how Grace likes him. Most of the time. There are exceptions to every rule, but not this morning. Stretching languidly in the warm aftermath of his entirely expected early-morning enthusiasm, she says, "Now tell me this was really such a bad idea."

Running his fingers slowly through his dishevelled grey hair, Boyd grins at her. It's the slow, crooked grin that makes her want to do the kind of things to him that most definitely aren't suitable for public discussion. He says, "I'm beginning to warm to it."

Really, he's the easiest man in the world to manipulate. It's simply a question of knowing which buttons to press and which levers to use. True, he can be infuriatingly stubborn, but if all the long years of close association have taught Grace anything, it's how to hammer home an advantage. She says, "I told you it would do us both good to get out of London for a few days."

"Mm."

His attention has wandered. Grace isn't at all surprised. Ignoring the inevitable direction of his gaze, she says, "Boyd."

He looks up reluctantly. "Grace."

"There's a long bracing walk out there with our name on it."

"Do we have to?"

"We don't _have_ to, but if you want to try that hot tub later…"

Boyd sits up with alacrity. "There's really nothing I'd like more than to spend the morning marching across miles of wet, empty countryside, Grace."

"Fraud," she accuses.

-oOo-

"Do you have _any_ idea where we are?" Boyd asks, his tone deceptively mild.

"Of course I do," Grace tells him sharply, trying her best to look as if the crumpled map she's holding makes perfect sense to her. If she's honest, she's fairly sure they've been completely lost for at least the last half-hour or more. It's not her fault that all the damned hills look the same, or that every field of sheep looks exactly like every other field of sheep. There's going to be hell to pay for this in the near future, she's quite sure of that.

The collar of his thick fleece jacket turned up against the keen breeze, Boyd is leaning against a section of dry stone wall, his arms firmly folded across his broad chest and his expression studiously neutral… with just a hint of the incredibly knowing about it. If he starts to look as insufferably smug as Grace suspects he very soon might, she really won't know whether to slap him or kiss him. In many ways her life was so much simpler before her illness and the changes it ultimately wrought between them. Kissing him never used to be a viable option, regardless of situation. And thinking about kissing him inevitably leads her mind straight to other things, none of which help her concentrate on the wretched map.

She turns her back to the wind, traces her finger along what she's sure is the route they've taken from the farm and tries to work out why they are not seeing what the map insists they should be seeing. The arms that snake round her waist from behind make her jump, as does the soft bristle of beard against her neck. He says, "Let's face it, Grace, map-reading just isn't your forte."

"Why would you think that?" Grace asks wryly. Tapping the map, she adds, "I swear we should be right by a stream…"

Boyd reaches over her shoulder to pluck the map from her. "Let me have a look. Boy Scout, remember?"

"Yeah, about forty years ago."

"Sadly even more than that, Grace," he tells her. After a moment, he hands the map back. "Come on, this way."

"I hate you," she says without ire.

"No you don't."

"That's what you think."

He takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers. "Cheer up, Grace. It was your idea."

-oOo-

She still can't pinpoint the exact moment things changed between them. Still isn't quite sure how they got from friends and colleagues with a notorious history of fighting like cat and dog to lovers. Something to do with the uncanny way certain sombre circumstances have of stripping away everything except the bedrock of truth. Something to do with the look in his eyes the day he first came to see her in hospital. Something to do with just how ready he was to sacrifice his life for hers. Something to do with – finally – clearly understanding the nature of the role she wanted to play in his life.

Still holding his hand as they finally walk through the trees towards their temporary abode, Grace glances up at him. He looks a little windswept, a little rough round the edges – apparently shaving is optional when one is out in the wilds – and ridiculously handsome in that incredibly sickening way that only women who are deeply in love can ever truly appreciate. Recognising her own folly, she smiles to herself and says nothing. Though it's certainly true he's a conspicuously good-looking man, and it isn't just Grace who thinks so. It may very well be only her, however, who's actually willing to put up with all his many faults and foibles for more than a few short weeks.

Apparently unaware of her chain of thought, Boyd says, "So, about this hot tub, then…"

"You do realise it's a shared facility?"

"So?"

"Bad boy."

"Oh, you have no idea."

"Actually, I do."

His answering grin is breathtakingly feral. And Grace likes it.

-oOo-

It's raining again, but the hot tub is thoughtfully located on a raised wooden deck with open sides but a substantial wooden roof that shelters it admirably from the worst excesses of the weather. It seems that if there are other people occupying the half-dozen or so other yurts discreetly ranged through the stretch of dense woodland they are either absent for the day or not keen on the idea of a foray out into the rain. It's very quiet, only the sound of the bubbling of the water and the rain on the wooden roof above them disturbing the rural silence. There are warmer and more exotic spots in the world, but just at that moment Grace wouldn't trade what she currently has for any of them.

"I'm sure we're supposed to be far too old for this kind of thing," she says at length, settling herself just a fraction more comfortably against Boyd's bare chest.

"Far too old and far too responsible," he agrees lazily.

Watching the steam rising gently from the surface of the water, Grace finally dares to ask, "So… is it worth it?"

"Hmm? Is what worth what?"

Almost shyly, she says, "This. Us. Is it worth all the risks and complications?"

The answer is immediate, comes with no trace of hesitation. "Of course it is. Why? Having second thoughts?"

"No," she says, not having to think about her reply for a moment. "No, not at all. But I'm not the one whose career's on the line."

"Slight exaggeration, Grace."

"Oh, so the Smith woman isn't gunning for you, then?"

"I don't give a fuck about the Smith woman. What's she going to do if she finds out? Rap me over the knuckles for screwing one of my consultants? Half the Met thinks we've been shagging each other for years, anyway."

"So eloquently put, Boyd," Grace says dryly.

"I rather thought so."

After a few contemplative moments she says, "Maybe we should have been a bit more… circumspect."

Boyd snorts. "Why? Ashamed of me?"

"Never," she tells him, and means it.

"Well, then. For God's sake, Grace, we're both a bit long in the tooth to be worrying what other people think."

"I'm not worried about what she thinks – or anyone else come to that. I just know you're walking on thin ice as it is."

"Nothing's going to happen, Grace. They haven't got anyone better who'd be willing to command the CCU, and they know it. It's not a job for young glory-hunters, it's a job for a stubborn old warhorse who isn't afraid to tread on a few toes when necessary."

He's right, but it doesn't stop her saying, "I just don't think you should be too complacent, Boyd. Maureen Smith really doesn't like you, and now she's been promoted…"

"Bollocks."

Grace shakes her head and doesn't bother making a riposte. She knows exactly how obstinate he is, and just how insubordinate he's likely to be if Maureen Smith dares to challenge him over the renewed spate of rumours about their relationship that have been flying around from department to department. It's extremely unlikely that anyone will have the balls, metaphorical or otherwise, to accuse either of them of professional misconduct. Putting the matter firmly out of her mind for the moment, Grace deliberately flexes herself against him. "Maybe we should go back…"

Boyd tightens his grip on her waist. "Maybe we should stay right here."

Grace smirks. "What, and frighten the squirrels?"

He delicately starts to trace the curve of her neck with his lips. "Beady-eyed little bastards shouldn't be watching."

She gives in. Rather too quickly.

-oOo-

"Romantic enough?" Grace teases gently.

"Nauseatingly so," Boyd says, the flickering orange candlelight that makes his eyes appear so intense and so tigerish only serving to underscore his words. He's stretched out in front of the wood burner on a generous heap of soft-furnishings and his head is firmly in her lap, but despite his indolent serenity there's a slight edge to his mood that she can't quite fathom. A hint of restlessness, almost but not quite hidden. A touch of expectation, maybe. Whatever's going on in his head remains a complete mystery to her, but she suspects she'll find out whatever it is soon enough.

Reaching for the open bottle of wine once again, she says "Paris is all very well, but…"

"But?"

"It was a rhetorical 'but'," she tells him gravely, refilling his glass and then her own.

"Fair enough," Boyd says, and closes his eyes again. "Paris is a honeymoon city, you know."

"So they say," Grace agrees.

"Fancy it?"

"Paris?"

"Obviously."

The obviously deliberately flippant suggestion seems to explain the touch of restlessness in him. Boyd and holidays are not natural bedfellows. Playing him at his own game, Grace answers languidly, "Why not?"

"And the honeymoon…?"

Startled, she blinks and almost drops the bottle she's still holding. "What?"

Boyd opens his eyes, and sure enough he's grinning again. "You heard me."

She stares at him, not remotely knowing how to interpret his words. He can't mean…? No, he can't possibly. Can he?

A little too belligerently, Grace demands. "Have you finally gone completely mad?"

"Maybe," Boyd says with a blasé, broad-shouldered shrug as he sits up. Still grinning, he adds mildly, "Marriage, Grace. I hear it only hurts the first time…"

_- the end –_

* * *

**_Scription Addict's "Last Line Challenge": _**

_Pairing – Boyd/Grace. Words – Min 1000, Max 5000. Story can be any genre, but must contain the following sentences, in any context and any order, and one must be the last line:_

_a. Why would you think that?  
__b. What do you mean you can't find the key?  
__c. Of course I do.  
__d. It was your idea.  
__e. I hear it only hurts the first time._


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